


In the Moment

by idelthoughts



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:39:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2744633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/pseuds/idelthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It was only dinner.  Where's the harm in dinner?</i>
</p><p>Henry and Iona go on a date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhere in a divergent universe, Henry and Iona went on a date. This story is going to stray into fairly adult territory (though not explicit), so please use your discretion when reading. Most of that is in the next chapter, though.
> 
> If I'd had more time, this is what I would have written for my fic challenge chapter with Henry and Iona.
> 
> Thank you to [pipsqueak119](http://pipsqueak119.tumblr.com/) and [washingwater](http://washingwater.tumblr.com/) for your instrumental beta work and feedback!

Henry allowed himself to check his pocket watch one last time, and then tucked it away, determined to shake off his nerves.

He’d only called Iona to say thank you for her part in his rescue. Jo had filled him in—with only the slightest awkward stumble over the subject of Iona kissing him—and the call to Iona was meant to be a courtesy to say he was none the worse for the ordeal. 

But one conversational gambit led to another, and next thing he knew he found himself with a dinner date on Saturday. Abe had quietly laughed at him as he researched restaurants and scrambled for dinner reservations, until Henry had acquiesced and let Abe make a reservation at an appropriate place. He was forced to admit that of the two of them, Abe had far more recent experience in taking women out for dinner. That was a humbling acknowledgement. 

This wasn’t what he’d planned, but it wasn’t bad. There was no harm in dinner, after all. Was there? 

He fidgeted in place, then checked his watch again. It was better than pacing. 

“Well hello there, Dr. Morgan.”

Iona’s voice came from behind him, and he pivoted around to greet her with a smile, snapping the watch shut and tucking it away. “Hello! A pleasure to see you again.”

She was smiling in greeting, but the warm expression faltered as she looked at him. He wondered at her reaction, confused, until he remembered the fading bruise around his eye. Damn the oversight. 

He should have delayed this until the mark had faded, no matter how interested he was to see her again. Now he’d inadvertently reminded both of them of the unpleasant ordeal with Cliff Wadlow—a memory he was hoping to leave in the past. His neck and back still ached, and likely would do for some time, but a bruise was an obvious badge he could have avoided putting on display. 

Henry shook his head, trying to smooth it over. “It looks worse than it is. It’s nothing.”

“I doubt it.” She came over to him and touched his cheek, tracing the line of the bruise. “I spent eight months working with Cliff. Henry, I’m sorry.“

“You’re not responsible for his actions.” He gently took her hand and pulled it from his face. 

“If I hadn’t kissed you, he wouldn’t have targeted you.“ She squeezed his hand, and her eyes roamed over the bruise. “I still can’t believe Cliff killed Richard, and then he does this—it’s a little hard not to feel responsible.”

She looked down at their joined hands, brow knit. He could understand her feelings; the guilt over Richard’s death would be a difficult load to shift, no matter how logical the arguments against her role in it.

“At least his targeting me resulted in his arrest, and the detectives found me before any real harm was done.”

Not to mention being caught before he turned on Iona herself. He didn’t want to think how Wadlow’s obsession would have played out with her in his hands.

She looked up at him again, and he was caught by the frank sincerity of her gaze. “I’m glad you’re alright.” 

With the full weight of her attention on him, it was hard to look away. The ability to pin someone down with a look was a skill he’d cultivated himself, as he’d long ago found that if you could catch someone’s attention like that, they’d start to see what you wanted them to see rather than what was actually before their eyes. A survival skill, more than anything else, developed out of necessity. Control and power without a single touch. It was fascinating to feel the effect from the other side.

Iona moved her thumb along the back of his hand and he blinked, realizing he was staring and still clutching her hand. He shook himself and released her, and sensed a hint of laughter hiding behind her smile. Fair enough, he deserved it. He was behaving like he’d never seen a beautiful woman before, and standing around with his jaw unhinged was doing his dignity no favours. 

Henry straightened, falling back on formal manners. He held out his hand towards the restaurant door. “Shall we?”

She tilted her head to the side, as though inspecting him. “We shall.”

He held the door for her and followed her into the restaurant.

 

***

They were stationed at a quiet table in the corner, and despite himself, Henry began to relax in Iona’s company. 

“So, how did you become a medical examiner?”

Henry was quick with an answer; the mix of half-truths in his life story were comfortable now, like a well-worn sweater, and professional questions were always much easier to answer than personal ones. 

“It was a natural extension of my medical degree specialization, and when I moved to New York, the opportunity arose for a position at the city office. Fortuitous timing, really. And I have—well, I suppose you could say I’ve a certain talent for death.”

At least he could amuse himself with bits of truth in his fabricated stories, if no one else. Abe would have appreciated that particular line. For all that Abe loved to roll his eyes at Henry, he appreciated being one of two people in on the cosmic joke that was Henry’s life.

Iona finished a bite of her poached salmon. “And it really doesn’t bother you—all that death.”

He shook his head. “Not particularly. Should it?”

“Most people are scared of it. It’s a primal instinct.” She looked up at him. “It takes a certain type of experience with death to remove that fear completely.”

He paused, fork hovering above his plate, caught short for a rejoinder. He tried to think of something light and witty, but instead flashed on the memory of a pistol barrel pointed at his chest—an ultimatum between his life, and another. He’d feared death then, fairly shaking apart as he held his ground, before a bullet through his heart changed everything.

“Henry. Henry?”

Iona touched his arm, and he focused back on her with his automatic, ready smile. “Yes. An attitude I’ve cultivated over time, perhaps.”

She looked concerned and apologetic, then brushed it aside with a small smile and rubbed his arm gently. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dig. Bad habit.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, picking up his fork and removing himself from her touch.

“You say that a lot,” she observed.

Henry took a bite of his greens to avoid answering. The unsettled feeling would pass if he ignored it, but it would be simpler to be unaffected if her gentle silence that said she’d listen, if he were willing to speak, didn’t pull at him quite so much. 

“I meant to pick your brain a bit tonight,” she said, her tone indicating she was purposefully proposing a new subject, and he was quietly grateful for her smooth shift. She leaned forward to rest her arms on the table. “How up to date are you in recent neurological research?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Neurology? Is that an area of yours?”

“Don’t look quite _that_ surprised,” she said with a smile, clearly relishing having caught him off-guard. “I studied a great deal of human physiology in the clinical part of my counselling background. And neurology—particularly the understanding of pain and its sources—is still very relevant to my work.”

He put down his fork, impressed that she’d kept up her clinical knowledge. “I’ll admit neurology is not my strongest area, but I do keep track. And there have been a number of interesting discoveries recently.”

“Well, in particular I had a patient suffering from allodynia, which meant I had to do a little specific research. It’s when the body—“

“—Misinterprets non-painful stimuli as pain, yes,” Henry said, warming to the topic. “An interesting condition, absolutely.”

“Yes, exactly. So in my reading, I came across this particular paper—“

And so began a fascinating diversion into unexpected shared medical interest, and most of dinner was spent deep in discussion, and then well into dessert, and after some time Henry noticed the restaurant patrons had thinned while they were bent in conversation. Somewhere along the line Iona’s leg had moved to press against the side of his beneath the table, and he had idly hooked his foot around the back of hers, and he was very, very comfortable.

“So how did you end up as a domination therapist?”

She took a sip of wine, considering her answer. “It was something that incorporated all my skills.”

“So it is a natural…er, inclination, then?” He cleared his throat, realizing halfway through that question that perhaps the answer was not one he wished to get in the middle of the restaurant, no matter how private their corner table might be.

“Are you asking if I take my work home with me, Henry?” 

She watched him with amusement as he laughed sheepishly. He constantly had the impression of being sized up, as though she were skirting the edges of him and seeing where the boundaries lay. Much to his chagrin, she kept finding holes, pushing past his typical comfortable front.

It was unsettling, as well as fascinating, to see himself behaving like a flustered schoolboy. Abigail had been able to do that to him—she’d been wild, in her own way. When he’d met her, the years were resting heavy on his shoulders. His attitudes had become stiff and rigid; he was clinging to a fading sensibility, technology and society changing around him almost too quickly for him to bear. He was poised on the edge of change, and she’d led him into it, without his even meaning to follow her. Her enthusiasm, her joy, her appreciation of the world—it had given him new eyes to see it all.

A soft stroke along the palm of his hand, which was resting on the table, drew his attention. Iona smiled at him as he focused on her, and he curled his fingers closed to catch her hand, apologetic again for his lapse. Why did her company cause him to wander in his thoughts this much?

Perhaps he’d fallen out of practice in the art of courting. When was the last time he’d taken a woman for dinner—an actual date, not a prelude to empty sex with a sincere thank you and a clean departure the next morning? Somewhere in the ’90’s, perhaps. Long enough ago that he felt a sting akin to damaged professional pride to have let a skill he considered himself quite good at fall by the wayside. He’d spent too much time alone lately.

He offered her a diffident nod. “I’m sorry if my question was prying.”

“No, not at all. I’m getting used to your style.” She shrugged. “I missed working with patients, is the short answer. I was good at it, and I felt I still had something to offer.” 

He nodded. It was half an answer—not entirely a dodge, but close. She was toying with his fingers on the table, tracing patterns on them with light and distracting movements, and he was having trouble keeping his entire focus from shifting to the contact point of their fingers. 

“You are certainly adept at understanding people,” he said. “Detective Martinez said you were the one who intuited Mr. Wadlow’s motivation for Richard’s murder.”

Her fingers paused, and Henry looked up, realizing a second too late that the reminder might not be welcome. Sure enough, Iona was looking down and away, but a slightly furrowed brow the only sign of any distress. She passed through the moment quickly, and returned her attention to him.

“People come through my door, and they’ve tried everything they can think of to deal with their troubles, and nothing has reached them. Therapy is about finding the right key to unlock what you’re holding in, and finding some peace with it. It turns out I’ve got the key some people need.” She sighed. “Pain makes people honest. It’s cathartic. And, it helps build trust—trust I won’t hurt them, that I will take care of them, not judge them. If they can learn to trust me, they can learn to trust others. There’s peace in that.”

Trust. Now there was a concept Henry wasn’t familiar with any longer. Who did he trust, besides Abe? After Nora, there’d been no one for over a century, until Abigail. When she left, that trust had fallen onto Abe, and Henry had relied on him more and more until he had to admit to himself that the burden he was on his son was too much to have to bear, and disappeared for several decades. Now it was better between them, but there was no one else.

He couldn’t hold her gaze any longer, and looked away, trying to hide the way her words tugged at him. He wasn’t her client, or some psychological project to take on. Even if he was, there was likely nothing that could unglue his cautious mistrust of the world. Fear and suspicion had kept him safe this long, and he couldn’t afford to lose it.

Which was a pity, because how the idea pulled him in. He remembered peace. Sometimes he still found it in snips and snatches, in moments of research and discovery, and in work well done. He found it in the safety of routine, between moves forced by—

He shivered as Iona’s fingernails traced a line along the edge of his shirt cuff on the inside of his wrist. He caught her smile that said she knew perfectly well that she’d dragged him back into the present with her action. She did it again, and for such a little action, it had quite the effect on him. 

“I fell into it, with—“ she stumbled over what she was about to say, and if Henry hadn’t been so hyper-aware of her at the moment, he would have missed it, but she caught herself and continued, “—in the past. I didn’t fully understand it then. I know a lot more, now.” 

Something in her voice spoke of a deeper experience than her light description. He wondered if this was an allusion to her relationship with her former patient, the man who had committed suicide. Henry was wise enough not to ask. 

Not that he was sure he could speak with a steady voice at the moment. Her soft stroking over his pulse point, along the palm of his hand, and back, was provocative enough that he was growing warm under his collar and he had a sudden wish they weren’t in a restaurant with other people. 

She leaned forward, and he swayed closer, drawn in as she lowered her voice. “Done right, it’s a _lot_ of fun.”

Henry’s thoughts were definitely no longer appropriate for a restaurant. 

Soon the wine was gone, and their waiter slid the bill on the table in a subtle yet heavy hint. They settled the bill and Henry helped Iona with her coat. The night was brisk outside as they stepped onto the street, and he stopped, facing her, offering her a slight formal bow.

“I’ve enjoyed our evening. Thank you for agreeing to come for dinner.” 

“I’ve had a great time myself.” She tugged lightly at the lapels of his wool coat, pulling him towards her, and he let her bring him close. “But I’d hoped the evening wasn’t over yet.” 

She looked up at him through heavy lashes, and he was so tempted to kiss her that he was half-sure he was already moving to do so.

“I’d be happy to walk you home,” he offered, just a shade too quickly for him to pretend to innocence.

“That’s a good start.” 

He couldn’t help the way his eyes followed the curve of her lips as he struggled for an appropriate response. He cleared his throat, chuckling as he shook his head at his own tongue-tied foolishness. It was a little embarrassing how his heart was tripping along, and the various fancies now running through his mind thanks to her sly smile. 

He gave her his elbow and they walked on, Iona tight against his side.


	2. Chapter 2

Henry had so many weaknesses. He was far too curious for his own good—a trait which had gotten him into more trouble than he could name—and alongside that, an impatience that was ridiculous for a man of his years. When his curiosity was piqued, he was hard pressed to put it aside until it was satisfied. And not just with facts and the curiosities of science, but also with people. 

People came in so many varieties. Each with their own shades of uniqueness, of course, but there were types of people, repeating patterns, that he began to identify over the years. The obsessives, the self-absorbed, the competitors, and on and on. Over time he could peg people faster and faster, finding predictable patterns in their motivations. He listened, he watched, and he learned, with the attentive pride of a master perfecting an art.

Once in a while he met the people who defied his tidy categories. First, he’d mix and blend characteristics, assembling a profile from his toolbox. Sometimes it worked, but when it didn’t, it drew him in like nothing else. People, as much as events, could be new experiences, and he craved novelty. Mysteries dragged him in, and people he couldn’t predict or understand were the greatest, most rewarding mysteries of all.

And, among these many other faults, Henry was a sucker for a pretty face. Wrap it all together in one package—well. He shouldn’t have been surprised to find himself in Iona’s home, seated on her couch with his shoes off, holding the glass of scotch she’d offered him and staring at her like she would suddenly make sense if he just looked hard enough.

She kicked off her high heels and sat next to him, curling her legs up and tucking her toes beneath his thigh, and he shifted to turn towards her. 

In her own space, which was homey and comfortable, without the hard and glossy edges of her office, Iona looked younger, softer. There was a glimpse of someone lighthearted beneath her careful persona, though he suspected she’d learned to keep that person hidden. 

She wiggled her toes, and he smiled, recognizing the move as a prompt to call his attention back from his wandering thoughts. 

“Yes, I’m sorry.” 

“You do that a lot—lose yourself in thought.”

“I suppose I do,” he admitted, setting his glass down on the coffee table. 

“Mm-hm. And what are you thinking about now?”

“You,” he answered truthfully. “That I find you intriguing.” The corner of her mouth curled up in amusement, and encouraged, he continued. “And very beautiful.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You really are sweet talker.”

“Only my honest thoughts.” When she raised an eyebrow in response, he laughed and conceded, “Alright, perhaps a little. Is it working?”

“Oh yeah, it is.” 

She tucked her feet under her and slid in close beside him, within the curve of the arm he had stretched across the back of the couch, then slipped her fingers around the knot of his tie and pulled him towards her.

It was like a drug, kissing her. He lost track of time, caught up in the feel of her lips, the waves of her hair against his fingers, the soft skin of her neck, until in one swift move she slid over his lap, one knee on each side of him, black skirt riding up high. He slid his hands up her thighs as he kissed her, finding the small line of skin bared between the tops of her gartered stockings and the edge of her skirt. 

It was all racing ahead quite quickly, and with a bit of conscious effort skipped past the temptation of that bare skin and slid past to the relative safety of her back as she kissed along his jaw, and down to his neck. He shivered, and she smiled against his skin. 

“Don’t know what to do with those hands?”

She nipped at his skin, and he shuddered. “I, ah—“

“Doing alright?” she asked. The sound vibrated on his skin.

“Yes.” 

His voice sounded deep and rough, and he knew it was hopeless to pretend he was anything less than completely, utterly aroused. She kissed him on the mouth again, hands in his hair, and he shifted forward to to the edge of the couch, pulling her close as he could until she fit against his hips with perfect precision. To hell with restraint; two hundred extra years didn’t make a single difference to a body that was physically thirty-five years old.

She tugged at his hair, pulling his head back to control the kiss, and he clenched his fingers against her back and winced as the stretch tweaked his abused neck muscles, where Wadlow’s collar had throttled him. She let go of his hair and backed off from the kiss as soon as she felt him flinch, putting a hand to his cheek. Her eyes were dark and lidded, lipstick blurred and cheeks flushed pink, but she looked at him with sudden sharp clarity.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat, trying to catch his breath and wishing she hadn’t caught the slight flinch. “Though a bit stiff, still,” he admitted after she just looked at him, waiting for him to properly explain.

She glanced down, and ran her fingers along his neck until she hit his collar, tracing the line of it. “May I?”

He nodded, and she carefully pulled his tie loose and unhooked the top two buttons of his shirt. He closed his eyes and tried to keep his composure as her fingernails dragged across his skin, where the faint bruises hidden beneath his shirt had yet to fade. The smell of her perfume, the hot heat of her pressed against him, the care in her light touch, the intimacy of her concern—he was dizzy with how much he wanted her.

“He really did hurt you,” she murmured. 

“I’m fine,” he assured her, tilting his head up and looking at her. 

“You’re not,” she said. 

She undid another button on his shirt and pushed the collar further, sliding the flat of her palms along his skin, rolling his head slowly to one side to inspect the bruising and chafed skin that was still red along the side of his neck. It was soothing to rest his head against her hand and feel the soft motion smooth over the ache. 

When she kissed him again, it was tender. Something entirely different stirred in him in reaction to the sweetness in her kiss.

“Henry,” she murmured. 

The gentle way she said his name startled him. He pulled back a space, confused by a series of fluctuating feelings and conflicting desires. This wasn’t idle chatter with colleagues, and it wasn’t the straightforward physicality of sex.  This was the dangerous territory of cultivating a personal connection, and he was beginning to remember why he shouldn’t do this.  He was too lonely to keep his distance properly. Just a hint of compassion, and he was ready to sit at her feet like a dog starved of affection. 

He cleared his throat and turned to kiss her hand, and then gave her a lopsided grin. “I’ll admit it was much less enjoyable than being tied up by you.”

Her brow drew together, and she narrowed her eyes. “There he is again, Charming Doctor Henry Morgan.”

He blinked, caught wrong-footed by the observation, delivered in the same intimate, soft tone of voice. 

“I wonder what it would take to get you to drop it.” She eyed him with speculation, but it was warm, her touch caring. She smoothed her hands up over his cheeks, toying with the hair at his temples, fingernails working into it to lightly scratch at his scalp.

He pasted a smile over his brief lapse, and gave a small laugh. “I have long cultivated habits, I’m afraid.”

He dipped his head forward to press a kiss to her collarbone. She sighed, resting a hand on the back of his head as he moved his lips over her skin in a caress, and her hips shifted slightly against him in response. He smiled, pleased at the success of his distraction, until she leaned over and whispered in his ear.

“Imagine being able to let that go. To relax, to be yourself, and enjoy it.” She kissed his temple, lips warm. “To be present—put aside all that history that drags you away all the time.”

He shut his mouth, swallowing. A small thrill of fear coloured his arousal, making his heart pound. He nuzzled at her neck—he was absolutely not hiding from her, he told himself. “What are you suggesting?”

“I already know you like being tied up.”

His sharp, exhaled breath was hot against his face as it reflected off her skin. “Oh.”

“And I already know I like tying you up.”

He looked up finally, and her intense focus on him was like a shot. “Iona,” he breathed. 

She drew her thumb across his bottom lip. “Doesn’t have to be now. But the offer is there.”

He was staring at her, jaw slack, and didn’t want her to stop talking. “How…” He didn’t know how to finish that question, and instead kissed the pad of her thumb as it swept over his mouth again. She smiled. 

“I have silks. They’re very soft.”

He swallowed. “I see.”

She put her hands on his shoulders and pressed gently, and he eventually got the message and leaned back, until she had him pinned against the back of the couch. She took his hands from her hips and circled her fingers around each wrist.

“Like this,” she said. 

Her blonde hair trailed against his cheek as she guided his arms up and back, until his hands were together above his head. She smiled gently, and then shifted her hips, tightening her grip on his wrists at the same time. He closed his eyes, trying not to make an undignified sound.

“And another for your eyes, so all you could do is feel.”

He’d have never thought a soft grip and simple words could be as effective as any physical restraint.

“I promised to make you beg, Henry.” 

She rolled her hips against him again, and he dropped his head back, groaning. At this point he was willing to let her do anything, so long as she didn’t stop doing that.

But she sat back, releasing his hands, and he blinked up at her, feeling disoriented and a little lost. She blew out a breath, her cheeks warm with her own excitement, and she smiled, a hint of shyness in it. Apparently he wasn’t the only one overwhelmed by the situation. She slid off his lap to stand in front of him, looking down at him sprawled on the couch, thoroughly rumpled and disorderly.

“As I said, the offer is there. If you want.” She bit her lip, waiting.

The terrifying truth of it was he didn’t want to let go of the faint threads of connection he felt to her. He was as hungry for her compassion and care as the tantalizing promise of physical intimacy.

He realized his pause had stretched on too long when a flicker of doubt crossed her features, a moment of insecurity. She had her own fears, just as much as he did, he realized. Somehow the idea of them both navigating uncertain waters together made it easier to bear.

He reached a hand out to her, and stood. He took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply.

“Yes,” he said, when he managed to break the kiss. “I trust you.”

Her bright, grateful expression warmed him, and he smiled, stroking her hair back with a tenderness that surprised him. 

God help him, he actually meant it.


End file.
